The Assessment

Ash stepped into the testing hall.

The air was thick with pressure—not just from the sheer size of the place, but from the nine figures standing at the far end.

Nine.

The Professors of the Academy.

The ones who decided who belonged here and who didn't.

Each of them was Lifted—far beyond the Wielders who had dragged him here. These were Masters, Exalted, and maybe even a Paragon among them.

Their gazes weighed heavy. Judging. Calculating.

The professor who had brought him stopped beside him and gestured forward.

"Ash, meet the Nine."

Their names were spoken one by one:

1. Solomon Graves – The Head Professor. His eyes were cold, his presence suffocating.

2. Veylin Calder – A man with an artificial right arm, fingers twitching as if he were eager to test something.

3. Ira Voss – A broad-shouldered brute with a scar running from his chin to his temple.

4. Renji Varin – Younger than the others, his smirk sharp and amused.

5. Alric Dain – Silent, watchful. His eyes never seemed to blink.

6. Oris Marek – A thin, wiry man with a book in one hand, fingers tapping restlessly.

7. Dante Krail – Built like a wall, arms crossed, unimpressed.

8. Selene Vaerin – The only woman among them. Poised, confident. Her presence was quiet but dangerous.

9. Malik Soren – The oldest of them, hair silver, gaze unreadable.

Selene took a step forward, arms behind her back.

"Your name," she said. Her voice was smooth, precise. Unshakable.

Ash hesitated. Ash

Her expression didn't change, but something in the air shifted.

"Interesting," she said. "Then I'll ask something else."

Her eyes locked onto his, and he felt it.

A pull.

A force curling around his mind, coiling deep inside his chest. It wasn't like the creatures in the Trial—this was something different. It didn't force him to move, didn't break his body.

But it compelled.

She tilted her head.

"What do you think of me?"

Ash's breath hitched. He hadn't expected that.

His mouth moved before he could stop himself.

"Beautiful."

Silence.

His own words slammed into him a second too late.

His eyes widened, and his throat went dry.

What the hell?

His fingers clenched, his entire body tensing. Why did I say that?

Selene raised an eyebrow, her lips curving slightly.

"Honest," she mused. "Good."

The realization struck him like a blade—she made him say that.

She had forced the truth out of him.

Her power compelled honesty. If she was stronger than someone, they couldn't lie to her.

His mind raced. If she had asked him something worse—something dangerous—he would've answered without resistance.

A cold sweat formed at the back of his neck.

Selene watched him, clearly aware of what he was thinking.

"That reaction," she said, voice calm. "It means your mind is sharp, despite your… condition."

Solomon, the Head Professor, finally spoke. "Enough, Selene." His voice was measured, but firm. "We're not here for games."

Selene gave a small nod and stepped back.

But Ash could still feel the weight of her ability lingering on him.

Solomon turned his attention fully to Ash.

"Let's begin the assessment."

The doors behind him slammed shut.

And the test began.The moment the doors shut, Ash knew there was no turning back.

The Nine stood above him on an elevated platform, their gazes weighing on him like a sentence already passed. Judging. Watching. Waiting.

Solomon Graves, the Head Professor, spoke first. His voice was cold, steady. "We test strength, adaptability, and instinct. You will not be graded on skill—because you have none."

Ash tensed but said nothing. He wasn't here to argue.

"We will determine whether you belong in this Academy," Solomon continued. "Or if you are better left outside its walls."

Something in his tone made it clear—if Ash failed here, he wouldn't be walking out alive.

A low hum filled the hall as the floor beneath him shifted. A section of the ground split apart, and from the opening, a figure rose.

Not a man.

Not a Lifted.

A construct.

It was humanoid, taller than him by at least a foot, but its body was formed of shifting metal plates, folding and unfolding in eerie silence. The moment it locked onto him, its eyes glowed red.

"Begin."

The construct lunged.

Ash barely reacted in time, jerking to the side as its arm—a blade—sliced through the air where his head had been.

Too fast. Too strong.

He stumbled back, heart hammering. There was no way to fight this thing. He had no weapon, no powers, nothing but the instincts that had kept him alive in the Outskirts.

The construct didn't stop. It advanced again, and this time, Ash wasn't fast enough.

Its metal fist slammed into his ribs, sending him flying.

Pain exploded through his chest as he crashed onto the ground, coughing violently. He could taste blood.

Laughter.

Ash forced himself onto his hands and knees, breath ragged. One of the professors—Renji—was grinning.

"That all?" Renji called out, voice laced with amusement. "You're lucky this isn't a real fight, or you'd be dead already."

Ash spat blood onto the floor and pushed himself up.

No.

He wasn't going to lose here.

The construct moved again, coming in fast, but this time—he watched.

Not its weapons. Not its speed. The patterns.

Every fighter had one. Even machines.

The construct swung, but Ash didn't dodge the same way. He twisted under the attack, letting the blade pass inches above his head. He was already moving before it could adjust.

He surged forward and slammed his elbow into the joint of its arm.

A normal hit wouldn't work. But joints were weaknesses.

The impact knocked the construct off balance, just enough for him to slip behind it. A second was all he needed.

But the professors saw it.

Solomon leaned forward slightly.

Veylin Calder, the one with the artificial arm, nodded in approval.

"He learns fast," Selene murmured.

The construct adapted. It spun, recalibrating. Ash could tell—it wasn't going to make the same mistake twice. And he had nothing left to exploit.

It was stronger. Faster.

He had only one advantage—his refusal to die.

So he fought.

Again.

And again.

And again.

The pain blurred together. The hits kept coming. His body screamed at him to stop, but he didn't. He couldn't.

And then—he saw it.

The pull.

It wasn't from the construct. It wasn't from the professors.

It was inside him.

Something deep, something foreign, something that had been there since the Trial.

Ash staggered, vision twisting for a split second. The construct moved in for the final strike—

And his body reacted on its own.

His hand moved.

A flicker of something unseen disrupted the space around him.

The construct's blade—aimed for his throat—stopped mid-air.

Not by steel. Not by strength.

By something else.

The Nine noticed.

For the first time, the amusement, the disinterest—it vanished.

Ash collapsed to his knees, panting. His body felt like it had been burned from the inside.

The construct froze for a moment longer. Then Solomon raised a hand, and it powered down.

The fight was over.

But Ash already knew—it wasn't the fight they cared about.

It was what had just happened.

The Nine stared at him, silent.

Solomon finally spoke.

"…Interesting."